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by autumnwaltz



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Light Angst, Pining, Romance, Self-Indulgent as hell, because well... they're supposed to be siblings, jon is just really conflicted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27892135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnwaltz/pseuds/autumnwaltz
Summary: He really needs to get a fucking grip. She is his sister — they are not the Lannisters, nor the Targaryens. They cannot act like this.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 29
Kudos: 176





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Winterfell is theirs once more. He has dozens of bruises and countless cuts, littering his body with black and blue, red and pink. There is a hot bath prepared for him in his chambers. She must have asked one of the servants, he thinks. She’s always been like that. Thoughtful… the grey fur coat she stitched with the Stark sigils, the perfect repairs on his previously ripped shirts, the tiny strip of leather that she wove around his curls, telling him how he looked more handsome with his hair tied back. He was secretly pleased about that. He remembers her, a girl of twelve, singing songs to herself while brushing Lady’s fur, adorning it with pink ribbons. He wonders if Lady felt as pleased as he did — she probably did. Sansa has the softest hands. 

He hears the door creak open, recognizes the dainty footsteps, graceful and soft and so remarkably _Sansa_ that his instincts don’t immediately grip the hilt of Longclaw leaning against the side of his wooden chair. Instead, he closes his eyes to the warm crinkling of the fireplace. He is safe here, with his sister. He is warm. 

“You’re bleeding,” she says, sitting on the chair next to him. A few strands of red hair have escaped from her braids, framing her face nicely. There’s a tiny speck of blood on her cheek, dark red and harsh against the porcelain of her skin. He slowly brings a hand and wipes it away, the pad of his calloused thumb scraping on her soft skin. A lady’s skin. 

“You too,” he says. 

“It’s not mine,” she replies. She looks frenzied, almost elated. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and there’s a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. He looks questioningly at her, and she says in a hard distinctive tone, “Ramsay’s.” 

His fists automatically clench at the name. She takes one of his hands and encases it in her own until it’s relaxed. “I took care of him,” she continues. 

He exhales at that, staring at her questioningly.

“I fed him to his hounds,” she says. 

“He deserved it. He deserved worse than that,” he tells her darkly. He remembers running towards their little brother, he could still see Rickon’s hopeful, panicked expression. He could still see Rickon’s body hitting the ground with a loud thud. He thinks of Sansa arriving in Castle Black, her eyes tortured. The way she flinched at the mere mention of Ramsay’s name… If Jon could kill him a thousand times over, he would. He grips her hand then, and the feel of it calms the raging fury inside of him. She is here, alive, and they are in Winterfell. 

“We will bury him beside father,” she says. 

He nods. “We should also have statues commissioned for him. And Robb. And your mother,”

She gives him a small smile, “Yes, I’d like that.”

He drinks the mug of ale beside him. It tastes much better than the one served in Castle Black. He offers it to her, and she declines, “I came here to take care of you, not drink.”

He raises his eyebrows, “I’m all right.”

“Your wounds, I need to stitch them.”

“Oh,” he doesn’t know how to feel about that. No one’s ever approached him to fix his wounds… growing up as a bastard, he learned how to do it himself. He only ever went to the maester when he had no choice. He supposes he has no choice now, but to sit there as Sansa gets up and retrieves her kit of needles and threads, placing them beside a basin and a clean rag. 

“I need you to take off your shirt,” she says. He does it awkwardly, painfully aware of how he must smell so terribly. The battlefield is grimy and there’s nothing worse than the stink of a man taking a shit right before dying. Sansa doesn’t mind, though. She steadily leans over him and cleans his wounds with the rag. She heats the tip of the needle with the light of a candle before stitching the gash on his upper chest right below his shoulder, shallow enough not to endanger his life but deep enough to warrant stitches. Her movements are steady and unfaltering, and he watches her as if in a daze. 

_She_ smells lovely, however. Sweet and _feminine_ , and he doesn’t know a lot about flowers but he is sure she smells like one. She runs her fingers softly over his scars, frowning at the sight. 

“They hurt you,” she whispers. 

“They hurt you, too,” he says. Under the firelight, her hair seems redder than the sunset. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again, I swore it to you and I intend to keep it,” he continues. The resolution on his voice is hard to mask. 

“I won’t let them hurt you, too,” she replies. “We only have each other now.”

Her eyes are incredibly blue, he thinks. Tully’s eyes. The shade of deep waters. She has Catelyn’s eyes… he has their father’s. They could never replace them, he could never be the Lord of Winterfell, but maybe, bit by bit, they could rebuild Winterfell together. Fix it brick by brick, walk among the halls as the Starks of Winterfell. _We only have each other now._ He looks at her as she moves on to his next cut, her needle piercing him, binding his skin together.

He is finally home. 

—-

They spend each evening together. They do nothing but sit by the fireplace, her sewing and him drinking ale as he peruses the papers in which Sansa recorded the current progress of their rebuilding. They need more livestock, they need more blocks, woods, nails. The glass gardens are in the middle of repair, and soon enough, there will be a steady inflow of food. 

“More of your shirts are getting ripped lately,” she says. 

He cringes, “Sorry. Training,” he grumbles. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I can ask one of the servants,” 

“It’s all right,” she interrupts. “I like doing it. Mother used to repair Father’s shirts all the time,”

He pauses. 

“We can’t have the King in the North walking around in torn clothes,” she says. “What would they say?” 

“Loads of bad things, I know,” he answers, his mouth breaking into a small smile. “They must mourn the lack of fashionable sense I have,” he says.

“Well, I’m here to prevent that,” she lets out a small giggle. Ghost lies by Sansa’s feet, and she pauses every once in a while to pet his furs. 

“It should have been you, you know. You won the Battle of the Bastards, not me. If it weren’t for you…”

“Stop that. Ever since King’s Landing, all my aspirations for a crown have ceased. I’m not that little girl anymore,” she says. 

He studies the graceful arch of her neck, her cheekbones, the plump of her rosy lips. 

“No,” he clears his throat. “You’re not.”

—

When he is awoken by her slipping under the covers right beside him, he tells himself this is fine. He is only giving comfort to his sister, it’s what a brother should do. They are doing nothing wrong. He wonders if this was how it started with the Lannister twins, sneaking into each other’s beds at night when everyone else was sleeping. He really needs to get a fucking grip. She is his sister — they are not the Lannisters, nor the Targaryens. They cannot act like this. 

But they’re different, he tells himself. Others will never know how much they have gone through together, how they found each other at their lowest and became each other’s source of strength and stability. How they helped each other piece themselves, one by one, until the hollow ache of their tragedies remained in the past, and the other’s presence was enough to alleviate the pain. He takes an arm around her waist and pulls her closer to him, breathing in the scent of lemons. She burrows her face against his neck. 

They are doing nothing wrong. 

—

“And why is he still even here?”

“I told you, we still need him!”

It first happens when they were arguing about Baelish, of all people. Jon wants him to go, leave the halls of Winterfell now and never come back, but Sansa insists that they still need the Knights of the Vale, and by extension, Baelish. At the back of his mind, he knows that, he _understands_ that, but what Jon also knows is the fact that that fucking _rat_ leers at Sansa at every chance he gets. As her brother, of course he’s fucking angry. 

“Sansa—”

He breaks away when it sets in just how close they are standing. There’s barely an inch between them now, both of their chests heaving in exertion, and she looks positively _lovely_ , with her cheeks red and her eyes flashing, and he hates it. His eyes fall down onto her mouth, pink and plump and so _inviting_ , and he hates himself too, for thinking of these vile thoughts. 

He breathes in deeply. Pushes the air out. Breathes in again. _Get a fucking grip._ He calls for all of the old gods who still deign to hear his prayers to give him self-control. But there she is, in front of him, annoyed and so fucking _pretty_ , honestly the most alluring creature he’s ever seen, and he has no right at all to think about taking her into his arms and kissing her into oblivion. She comes back into his life unexpectedly, sending him into a spiral of debilitating need to protect her, bring her home, keep her safe and warm, and he’s absolutely _floored_ by all of it. 

He doesn’t expect what happens next, either.

Sansa steps in and eliminates the distance between them. She brings her hands — _soft, warm, dainty_ — onto his face, pulls his head down, and takes his mouth into her own. 

He freezes. His heartbeat is so fast it’s close to exploding, and he wonders if she can hear it, too. Her lips stay pressed against his, the pressure equally grounding him and obstructing the general sense of control that he has carefully built around her. 

The gods help him now, but he could only resist for so long. He pulls her closer by the waist and kisses her back, her lips are so soft and warm, just like the rest of her, and when she opens her mouth to let him in, she tastes like lemon cakes too. Sweet and addicting. He can feel her fingers wrapping his hair, and maybe he’s exactly like Lady, because he loves being petted like this. He explores her mouth, brushing his tongue against hers, and it feels so _good_ , and she tastes so _good_ , that there is no way, no way that this is wrong. It becomes frenzied and messy, and he lifts her and deposits her on the table, and she wraps her legs around his waist, bringing their hips to flush together. He lets out a low groan, then proceeds to kiss her neck, sucking each piece of skin he finds, marking it as his own. Her head falls back, and she moans his name. He likes that, he adores that sound. His hand roams on the smooth skin of her thigh, revelling at the access she gave him. 

His hips instinctually grind against her centre, and _fuck_ , it feels so fucking good. She pushes her hips back, kissing him again, and the friction is so delicious, if they stop now, he will _die._

There’s a knock on the door.

They both freeze on their tracks like a bucket of ice cubes washed over them. 

_Knock_. 

She unfurls her legs from his waist, gracefully leaping off the table and fixing her gown. 

_Knock_.

“Give us a few seconds!” she calls. 

He runs a hand on his hair, painfully aware of the bulge on his pants that he has no way of hiding except for sitting down behind the table, so he does exactly that. He looks at her. Her hair is a bit of a mess, and there’s an unmistakable bite mark on her neck. But other than that, she’s immaculate. 

“Come in,” she says in a loud, steadier voice.

Ser Davos steps in and takes in the room slowly. His eyes move from Sansa and onto Jon, who’s still leaning against his chair, trying remarkably hard to appear nonchalant. 

“Your grace, my lady,” Davos bows.

“What is it?” Jon snaps. 

“Jon, don’t be rude,” Sansa admonishes, moving to stand beside him. He frowns at her and back to Davos. He exhales loudly. 

“Ser Davos, what can we do for you?”

Davos shifts on his feet, obviously unnerved at Jon’s irritable mood. “It seems,” he chuckles lightly, “that I’ve interrupted something—”

“No, you have not,” Jon interrupts. 

Davos stops, then glances at Sansa, who’s closed off her expression the way she does when other people are around. “Of course, your grace. I was just here to inform you of urgent news,” he says. 

Jon immediately thinks of the worst scenarios. The army of the dead reaching the wall…. Somehow climbing it…. Or the undead giants destroying on of the gates… 

“It is your brother, your grace, Lady Sansa,”

Jon hears Sansa inhale sharply. 

“A raven came. Your brother Bran is alive, along with a daughter of House Reed. They are in Castle Black.”

Pin drop. 

“Thank you, Ser Davos,” says Sansa. “We are pleased to hear about this. Have a good evening.” Davos pauses to look inquisitively at the two of them for a moment, before bowing his head and leaving the room. 

They don’t talk afterwards or look at each other. Sansa leaves the solar to go to her room. He goes to his and prepares for bed as if in a daze — perhaps she regrets what happened at the mention of their brother, maybe she won’t go to his chambers tonight. She probably hates him now, too. He wants to punch himself. He stares at the ceiling for a long time, chastising himself, berating his _weakness_ . He should have known better, he should not have kissed her back. What would father say? What would _Robb_ say? Catelyn must be rolling on her grave — because she was right, after all. He _is_ a bastard _,_ lustful and shameless. 

He stops breathing when he hears the door slowly swing open, and the footsteps reach his bed. Her scent assaults him. She’s recently taken a bath, and his whole surrounding suddenly smells like flowers. She pulls the fur open and settles herself in, lying on the bed, facing away from him. 

“Sansa—”

“Let’s talk about this tomorrow, Jon.”

At the mention of Bran, he is conflicted by his bouts of happiness and excitement to see him, and yet at the back of his mind, he also knows that this is a blaring reminder that they are siblings, that what they did was wrong. 

He nods as if she could see it. Going against all the rational part of his mind, he extends an arm, weaving it around her waist, and pulling her back against his chest, like he’s always done. He knows she likes being held like this. She sighs.

—

They don’t talk about it the next day. In fact, they don’t talk about it at all for a whole week, pretending that night never happened, walking on their tiptoes around each other. They only talk about ruling, how much grain they have, how many furs they still need. The posting of the guards, the rations in the kitchens. They talk about Bran’s impending arrival, of which they are thrilled. They talk about everything, except the glaring obvious of what’s looming over them. 

When Sansa approaches him, asking him to teach her how to defend herself, he readily agrees. She needs this… she has gone through so much, from evil queens to evil men trying to control her, to get their filthy hands on her. He mourns of the fact that they have largely succeeded, and he couldn’t do anything about it. This is the least he could do now. 

He tells her to meet him at the Godswood, where there is privacy. The entire forest is blanketed by snow, and it’s beautiful, really. It reminds him of his childhood when he and Robb used to play around here. They pretended to be knights, to be the lords of castles, gallant and tall, rescuing fair maidens from the clutches of monstrous creatures. Sansa used to follow them around before she had decided that she must please her mother at all costs, used to act as the princess in their plays. Sometimes he was the monster, sometimes he was the one who saved her. 

“I’m having the Lord’s chambers prepared for you,” he says as soon as he felt her presence.

“Mother and father’s room?” she is taken aback. “You don’t want me to—”

“No, of course, you still could,” he interrupts, addressing the fact that they haven’t slept in separate beds ever since they’ve taken back Winterfell. “As long as you want, it’s all right. No one knows,” he says. 

“You’re the king now, you should take it,” she replies. 

“Sansa, I’m not a Stark,” 

“You are to me.”

His stomach clenches at that. 

“And you deserve it… I keep telling you, it’s because of you that we are standing here,” he hesitates. “I could go to your chambers instead… if you want.”

“I do,” she says. He exhales a massive relief off his chest. 

“All right then.”

—-

He teaches her the basic tactics, how to position her feet, how to move, where to aim. She takes it amazingly well, but she is not that strong and keeps losing to his purposely weak attempts to disarm her. 

“I told you, don’t let your opponent read your thoughts!” he admonishes. 

She rolls her eyes and tries again. Parrying her sword against his, exerting herself to score _at_ _least_ once, and failing tremendously. She only sighs and attempts once more, this time moving in determination, but he quickly retaliates and swerves them until he’s trapped her, her back against his chest, the blunt edge of his sword against her chest. They’re so close, as close as they had been that _night_. He feels her move to grasp his hands on hers, and then proceeds to _grind_ against the identifiable bulge in his pants. He inhales sharply, instantly freezing on his feet. His hips instinctually move back against her, seeking the delightful friction. She gasps, and answers his prayers by pushing her buttocks harder. And then she moves out of his grasp, taking his sword from him and pointing it at his neck. “I got you,” she grins. 

“You— you cheated,” he says shakily, still dumbfounded.

“I did what I could to win,” she smirks at him. 

He needs to drown himself in a cold bath. 

—

When he comes into her room, the lord’s chambers, he finds her standing by the window, watching the white landscape and the soft shower of snowflakes. 

“They estimate that Bran will arrive by next week,” she says, her breath fogging the glass. She wipes it clean with a hand.

“That’s good… I’m happy,” he replies.

“Me too,” she smiles at him. And she looks so pretty, so… _sweet_ , he couldn’t stop himself from moving towards her and palming her face, pressing his lips on her forehead without thinking. He lingers, then withdraws, gently looking at her eyes, then down to her lips. When he moves back away from her, she catches his wrist. 

“Jon,”

He stops. 

She steps towards him. “You know… we are only half-siblings,” she says in a small voice, almost a whisper. 

He swallows, and gives a curt nod. 

She’s closer now, too close. “And we haven’t even been half-siblings. Not for a while,” her warm breath ghosts on his ear. 

Another curt nod. 

“Jon… no one has to know,” 

Something within him snaps, and suddenly he's pouncing on her, kissing her roughly, his hold gentle and yet firm. In the distance, he could hear the wind bellowing, he could hear a pack of wolves howling. It doesn’t matter, nothing else matters, only her. He leads her to the bed, thanking the gods she was wearing only her nightgown, looks at her for permission and when she nods, he unlaces the bindings slowly, until she was standing before him naked as the day she was born. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he mutters to himself. He deposits her on the furs, relishing at the view. She brings him down to her and kisses him, and he kisses back just as urgently. It’s messy, and frenzied, and when she tugs his shirt upwards he immediately removes it, almost throwing it halfway across the room. She moves to his breeches, unlacing it with sure, delicate fingers. He heaves a breath as his member is freed, going back to kneeling atop of her, supporting himself on his elbows. His mouth travels toward her neck, her collarbones, her chest, kissing and nipping at every inch of skin he encounters. She tastes as sweet as she smelled, like lemon cakes and he licks at her sweat, never tasting anything as good as this. He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking on it hungrily, and she keens. His other hand moves downwards to prepare her, two fingers slowly caressing her soaked outer lips, pushing inside, and he sucks in a breath at the feel of her hot, tight flesh. 

She moans loudly, and he continues pushing his fingers in and out, drawing out a thumb to rub at her clit. “Jon!”

He grinds his erection at her leg, desperate. He moves to her other breast, tonguing her nipple, lightly nipping at it while she squirms underneath him. “Sansa… please.”

“Yes, yes,” she answers incoherently.

Then he slides in, pushing through her folds. She gasps, he exhales. He sees her closing her eyes, and her thighs clench around him. She feels fucking _marvelous._

He looks down at her, expression tight and concentrated. He has to go slow… he cannot lose control. “Relax,” he whispers. “If you can.”

She nods, biting down on her lip, squeezing her eyes closed. She’s too fucking _tight._

“Please, Sansa, relax,” he begs, drawing a hand on her hip, rubbing circles with his thumb. He pants heavily, staring at her. He takes a deep breath and slides deeper, letting out a curse. She squeaks below him, her fingers scrambling to grip at his shoulders. His eyes draw shut in pleasure, in grief, and he continues to rub circles on her hip, grounding her, calming her. He concentrates on her, at the silken warmth, at the feel of her soft skin under his. 

He slips further inside. “Sansa,” he groans. She keens at that, she looks so fucking beautiful, her naked chest glowing against the candlelight. He flutters his eyes shut, his jaw dropping open, body trembling. His elbows shake violently, his control slipping. He looks down at her, touching her cheek.

He licks his lips. “Are you all right?” he asks.

She draws his head down and kisses him instead, softly, slowly. “Yes,” she whispers. 

Jon pulls back, slowly, too fucking slowly, and then plunges back into her. 

She moans loudly, her fingers clenching the sheets tightly. He pants at her neck, thrusting gently, as gently as he could. He doesn’t want to hurt her, it’s the last thing he wants to happen. 

“Jon?”

“Yes?” he pants.

“Are you all the way in?” she asks in a tiny voice. 

He shakes his head, continuing his slow rocking. 

“You can give me all of you,” she whispers. “It’s fine,” and then she opens her thighs wider, and he sinks down like a pebble tossed in a pool. 

She screams, he groans. 

The hand which was on her hip moves to grasp a thigh, holding it flush against her chest and his head drops on her neck, muttering curses under his breath. He felt his control slip past him, and he drives into her like a wild animal, feeling like he would die of pleasure at any moment. He kisses her, murmuring her name over and over like a prayer, his hips driving into her in a fast pace, and she’s writhing underneath him, moaning reprehensibly, and it feels so fucking _good_. 

He’s lost track of time, only focusing on her moans, her gripping his back like it was her lifeline, and he could not stop himself thrusting into her endlessly, relishing at the feel of her tight, wet, cunt, trying his best to draw out more of her moans.

 _Fuck_ , he’s so close. He moves a finger down towards her cunt, rubbing her clit while he kisses her again, fucking her mouth, taking all that he could get. “Sansa, please, please, come for me,” he begs, drawing away to suck on the spot on her neck that she likes. He thrusts harder, faster, and he could feel his restraint slipping away, and he continues to rub at her clit in circles, revelling at her whimpers. “Please, please,” he murmurs, “Sansa, please,”

Her back bows and she screams, clenching and unclenching around his cock, her body shaking. _Thank_ _fuck,_ he plummets into her roughly, thrusts a dozen times more, drawing out her orgasm. He knew he should pull out, she’s his sister, he cannot spill his seed inside of her, but she only wraps her legs tightly around his waist, her hands pushing his ass into her, and he explodes, spilling into her, muffling his cries on her neck. He exhales heavily. 

“Jon,” she breathes. “I forgot to tell you,” 

“What is it?” he asks hoarsely.

“A raven came from the citadel. Winter is here.”

He chuckles, burrowing his face on her neck. Her hand caresses his back.

“Well, father always promised, didn’t he?”

**Author's Note:**

> hey besties! tell me what you think. kudos are also appreciated love u <3


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